Because You Never Said It
by iamjohnlock
Summary: John has reached his third Christmas with out Sherlock, he is trying his hardest to cope with the fact that he never told Sherlock about what he truly felt when the impossible happens. But is it real?


The night was silent and John looked out the lounge window, the only thing that inhabited the streets below was the wet marks from the gentle snow that had just started falling. Oh snow, the last time John could remember it snowing was four Christmases ago. The last Christmas he still had… John shook the thought out of his head and quite painfully retreated into the small kitchen. His leg had been bothering him again for about a year now and he had not bothered to seek help. He grabbed his cane from the corner as soon as he was within arm's reach and immediately put the weight of his right side into it, 'damn my leg' he thought. As he stood there for a moment to regain his strength he peered around the kitchen, a box lay in the corner, a box that he had not moved for 3 years. Through a small slit in the top you could see the silhouette of a microscope. 'I should move that.' John thought for the hundredth time and turned around to look out the window once more before retiring for the night when he saw something black swish across the street and out of sight in a blink of an eye. John took two steps back towards the window, 'Sherlock?' he thought his hopes unreasonably high. Of course it wasn't, that is impossible.

John sighed and leaned himself against the wall. It had been nearly a year since John first thought he saw him. A tall, dark silhouette seemed to be watching him as he was walking home from the super market one evening. For a fleeting moment, he was certain he knew who it was, but that was impossible. When he looked again, of course, the man had vanished. Perhaps he had never even been there at all. John had no choice but to dismiss the idea. There had been a few times after that. Seeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye in a crowded place, or imagining he saw someone move around his flat. But that is all it was, he was just imagining things, he had to be.

"John, are you home dear?" a soft voice called from the hall. Mrs. Hudson came walking into the flat carrying a small bucket of what smelled like the left overs of a beautiful Christmas dinner. Mrs. Hudson was John's landlady and for the past several years a very close friend, she was an elderly woman with the biggest heart and the highest patients, you would have to be to be able to put up with Sherlock. But she did much more than put up with him, she loved him, John did too. That was a burden they both shared, a burden that brought them closer together than ever before.

The worst thing, John decided as he drifted off into thought, was that he hadn't told him. Something he could never talk to Mrs. Hudson or his therapist about. He'd had all that time, so many chances, and he'd never said it. Maybe he was just a bit too scared, but it was mostly because he didn't really been able to believe it himself. Not until recently had he finally come to terms with it, now after Sherlock has been gone for three years. And now he was all out of chances. Sherlock _was _gone. He was gone and he was never coming back, ever. He'd never know. And John would never know either, if Sherlock could've ever shared his feelings. He would never know whether or not Sherlock could have thought of him as more than a friend, the way he thought about Sherlock now. In the end, it didn't matter. Sherlock was dead either way. Perhaps it was better this way. John couldn't let himself get too disappointed.

But he couldn't help himself but lay the blame upon Moriarty, the man who was with Sherlock that day. A man who played mind games with him, who repeatedly put him in dangers way just for his own amusement, not much of a man at all, a spider.

"Oh John look at this place, there are books everywhere! How many times must I say I am not your house keeper? At least do the washing up!" John, being forced out of his thoughts, turned around to see Mrs. Hudson carrying two tubs stacked on top of each other and at least six shopping bags hanging off each arm.

"Merry Christmas Mrs. Hudson," John forced a smile, he was getting rather good at that, but Mrs. Hudson knew it well and could see right through him, as always.

"Oh John, do cheer up." She hesitated as if she were going to say more but couldn't either due to the fact that it was too painful or that everything had already been said. Instead she put all the bags on the cluttered table and placed one of her elderly hands on John's arm. They just stood there for several moments neither of them looking at each other, neither of them saying a word, but they both knew they were thinking the same thing, 'I miss him too.'

Finally John cleared his throat, "So what have you brought me?" Mrs. Hudson immediately became cheery again, an act she had become very good at.

"Okay so I have brought over some baked chicken with steamed broccoli and a slice of apple pie because I know you haven't made anything yourself, I also did the shopping because when I was in here cleaning up yesterday you had a jar of jam in your refrigerator and that is it. You have got to feed yourself John!" The way she worried about him always made Johns heart lift a little bit. The corners of his mouth twitched as a true smile came to test the waters.

"And you say you aren't my house keeper." John said the smile becoming apparent in his voice as he walked over and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the top of her head.

"Oh dear I forgot your Christmas present let me go back down stairs and fetch it!" Mrs. Hudson immediately swung around and disappeared behind the corner. John sighed and began to put away the shopping; milk, eggs, bread, all things that would probably go bad before he got around to consuming them. John was just getting lost in his thoughts when he heard a vibration that violently shook him out of it, a text. He turned on the spot and glanced at the table that held his phone skeptically. Who would be texting him though? It was half past 8 on Christmas night, his sister Harry had already called and Mrs. Hudson was just downstairs. John limped cautiously over to the phone, although he didn't know why, it wasn't like it was going to explode or anything. He wasn't sure why he was so nervous about a text, it could be, although terrible unlikely, Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother. He picked up the phone and pressed the middle button sending light flooding out of it.

**1 New Message**

John clicked read.

Open the door.

SH

Johns mind froze. This is a joke; this has to be a joke. John looked up and out the window across the room; suddenly everything didn't looks so deserted anymore. The snow was blowing in all different directs, people were walking from room to room in the flats across the street, sirens were zooming in and out of ear shot, and he was certain everyone within a 200 meter radius could hear his heart pounding.

Forgetting about his cane John made a bee-line through the lounge, out the flat door, and down the stairs leading to the front building door. He passed Mrs. Hudson as he reached the last step and slid past her as she watched him very confused, "Where are you going dear it is freezing and you haven't got on a single thing beside that jumper!"

He stood in front of the door for a moment breathing wondering what on earth he was doing. For a moment John contemplated looking through the peep hole but he wasn't sure he would be able to make himself open the door if he saw the impossible. Mrs. Hudson was stood frozen in spot watching him and with one more breath of encouragement John grabbed the door handle and twisted.

The whole world seemed to crash down around him as he laid eyes the man waiting in the doorway, tall, unruly black hair curling in all directions, and wearing that infamous long black coat that constantly haunted his dreams.

"Sherlock," John could barely get the noise out, his head was spinning and the whole world was moving in slow motion. The two met eyes and John was suddenly filled with a feeling he had never experienced before.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" He shouted without breaking gaze, the man who was nearly identical to Sherlock took a step back the small smile that was on his face morphing into a frown. "You, you are dead. You're dead and you're here, what am I saying, no you are not! MRS. HUDSON!" Mrs. Hudson jumped; she had become entranced at the sight of John and Sherlock standing there and was now forced back into reality. She made a small whimper and ran upstairs into what used to be John and Sherlock's shared flat.

"May I, uh, come in?" The voice even matched, that was all John could take he turned and nearly ran back up the stairs. Yet he left the door open behind him so Sherlock walked up the steps slowly and calmly until he was in the entryway of the flat where Mrs. Hudson sat on the sofa crying and John was by the window pacing.

"What are you doing?" asked John as he turned towards the man in his door way, "Who are you?" He couldn't understand what he was feeling; he wanted to cry but the old solider in him forced him not to.

"John," replied the man in black, looking straight into his eyes, "It's me. It's... Well, you know..."

"No," said John as he felt himself turning white, "It can't be. You can't be... You _died_," his voice broke but his eyes were not filling with tears, he was standing up straight holding his hands by his side steady as a brick, he paused for a moment taking in a deep breath, "I saw you. I saw you die. I felt your pul- I held your hand as _your_ blood covered the pavement. I saw you _die_."

"Look at me, John," said Sherlock with a slight laugh as he opened up his arms and spun around in one slow rotation, "Do I look dead to you? It was a _trick_, it was just a trick."

"_A trick_," John stormed forward, "what the fucking hell do you mean by trick. Sherlock you better hurry up and talk fast because so help me god, I am about to lose it!" A cry came from the corner as Mrs. Hudson curled into a ball, she was sobbing heavy and painfully but neither of them looked over.

"I couldn't tell you, I couldn't. I had to be gone; Moriarty would've come after you and Mrs. Hudson… And Lestrade. You all had to believe I was dead. Everyone had to believe- You had to believe I was dead."

"But Moriarty is dead; he killed himself, _three years_ ago!" John was just about done with Sherlock's shit. He turned around walking over to the area of the lounge where Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the edge of the sofa in a little ball. He wanted to sit with her and hold her, make her feel better like she has done for him every day for the last three years, but he couldn't. All he could do was stand there with his arms crossed staring at her break. "It's been three years, Sherlock. Three years. Why did you leave it so long?"

"I never meant to tell you. I wanted- needed you to move on. But..." John suddenly looked up. He tensed as he looked into the face of Sherlock Holmes looking back at him, a face that showed no guilt.

"Now just hold on for a minute, you never meant to tell me? _Fucking hell Sherlock!_" John walked swiftly back over to Sherlock stopping only a few paces away, he was walking perfectly fine now that his leg was out of his mind.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough, Sherlock! Sorry doesn't make up for the past three years! It doesn't make up for all the pain- I still can't even believe this is happening. YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! I buried you. I _buried_ your body!" Suddenly, John realized what the feeling was. Betrayal, Sherlock had betrayed him. He chose to trust Sherlock, out of all people, and he betrayed him. He'd let him believe he was dead for three years, and now all he was, was sorry? Without stopping to think, he took a half step forward and punched Sherlock's face with all the strength he could bare, sending him flying into the old chipped wall behind him. Sherlock looked up, a shocked and hurt expression on his face, but only for a moment. He stood as quick as he could but leaned back against the wall behind him for support.

"You _punched_ me," he said, sounding almost childlike, while he held his jaw with one hand.

"Yes well, you deserved it." John replied a little shocked at his own actions but trying hard not to show it. He regretted it a little considering he loved Sherlock; no he was _in_ love with Sherlock. He had been for all of the years they were flat mates and even through the separation, even until this day. It wasn't that John was gay; he did like men at all. He liked this man though. This man who was an arrogant sod, who went around knowing everything except when to shut up, this man who left his science equipment and experiments all over the house and never cleaned up a single dish he used.

John took a breath in, "Okay but I want this explained, now. What the hell happened, how are you not… dead. I saw you fall."

"Ah – but you didn't," he said as he held up his hands to his face shooting John with unbearable nostalgia, "actually see me ever hit the ground." John stopped to think about what he has just said. He had watched him take those steps off the roof; he had run towards him, he had been knocked to the ground by a bicyclist; he had seen him dead on the ground.

John looked back up at Sherlock, who was looking down at him for he was quite a bit taller, with his eyes brows raised.

"Kept my chemistry stuff I see," Sherlock said in his usual cocky voice that John knew too well as he walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. "Did you expect me to return, or just hoped."

"Hoped," John said almost quiet enough for no one to hear, but Sherlock already knew the answer.

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen, they were standing face to face looking at each other, 'tell him now, tell him you idiot' John thought to himself. Johns gaze was locked with Sherlock's pale blue stare, his cheek bones sharp as knifes, the whole world seemed to hover around them at that moment, and all was silent. All was silent. All was very much too silent.

"Wait, where is Mrs. Hudson?" John turned slightly to look into the lounge where Mrs. Hudson was previously crying her eyes out.

"No wait don't!" Sherlock grabbed his arm before he could turn around fully, "You can't."

"Why? Let go Sherlock!" But Sherlock did the opposite of let go, instead he grabbed Johns other arm and held him firmly in place.

"Because then I'll have to leave." His eyes flashed with what John thought could only be panic.

"What? What do you mean?" John's heart started pounding again; he was making no sense at all. "What the hell are you on about, you'll have to leave? Sherlock you're back, you're finally back, and Mrs. Hudson missed you just as much as I did. And now you're back, you're alive!"

"No, I am not." Sherlock let go, "I can never be back; you keep doing this to yourself."

John's lungs clenched up, "What? No, shut up." He turned quickly, panicking. But when he turned back he felt the cold flood of sweat on his brow and the hard wood under his back, Mycroft was leaning over him, "You need to stop John, stop doing this; you are ruining yourself." His hands were around John's face, his leather gloves felt like the fires of hell against his skin. John took in a long exasperated breath as if he was holding it for far too long. His hand clasped around Mrs. Hudson's feeble arm who had been kneeling next to him on the floor of the lounge. Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock was dead.


End file.
